


Valhalla's Calling

by author_morgan



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Valhalla
Genre: F/M, because the tale Ivarr told of him and King Rhodri gave me an idea for backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28635840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/author_morgan/pseuds/author_morgan
Summary: Ivarr has always sought Valhalla, but an encounter with an old enemy convinces him the Valkyries will be waiting to take him home.
Relationships: Ivarr the Bonesless/UnnamedOC, Ivarr the Bonless/Reader, Ívar beinlausi Ragnarsson | Ivar the Boneless/Reader
Kudos: 14





	Valhalla's Calling

KING RHODRI UNKNOWINGLY spends his last night on the Lord’s good earth fortifying the walls and gates of Caustow Castle against the Dane and Mercian fyrd on his doorstep. They will attack at dawn —retribution for the death of the young Ceolbert. Eivor Wolfsmal knows what it is like to hate a man, but even his hatred toward Kjotve the Cruel could not compare to the rancor Ivarr the Boneless felt toward King Rhodri. The feud between the king and Ivarr is a wound left festering for many years. “Why hate the man so much?” Eivor asks, running the edge of a damp whetstone over his father’s ax.

Ivarr turns his cheek to the flames, motioning to the deep scar cutting from his scalp down to his jaw. “Rhodri gave me this nick,” he says, “but what he took from me?” Ivarr’s hands clench into fists around the wooden throat of his ax, as though he is wringing the king’s neck. He laughs, dark and hollow, but Eivor can see the glimmer of something else in his hateful stare. “I haven’t had anything to lose in a long time, Wolf-kissed.”

Eivor sets aside his ax and leans toward the fire to hear what bitter story the son of Ragnar has to tell. A man with nothing to lose had no reason to live, and Ivarr had been seeking Valhalla for a lifetime. “Years ago, I was heading back from the Western Isle…”

THE FIGHTERS OF the Western Isle send the party of Dane raiders running for the shore and their longships. Not even a fool could hope to win the fight had they not retreated. Ivarr and his band of drengr break through the tree-line on the beach —a mad dash among the barrage of arrows and battle cries to push the three longships back into the dark sea.

Night falls, and there is no wind to fill the sail, no energy left in the rowers to push forward through the still water after the hasty retreat. Most are asleep or gazing heavenward at the dark canvas of a moonless sky. Ivarr the Boneless sits under the tiller at the aft of the ship, arms crossed and glowering at no one, and nothing, in particular. His mood soured by the outcome of the day until his ladylove joins him —wiping her bloody hands on the green sash at her waist. “Vigdís?” He asks after the shieldmaiden as she’d taken an arrow to the shoulder.

“Will live,” she answers, stretching her legs the best she can. Ivarr drapes his arm around her shoulders, leaning his cheek against the crown of her head. A soft sigh escapes her lips. “I am tired and ready for home,” she admits, yearning for the life she and Ivarr had briefly talked about not so long ago. Though, she knows the Son of Ragnar will not be pleased to return to his brothers without having wetted his axes first. “There’ll be opportunities along Cymru’s coast.” He grunts in response —Cymru is a poor substitute for the spoils of the Western Isle.

“Nicked this from one fucker,” Ivarr says, revealing the golden pendant in his palm —pressed and twisted into a leafless vine. Taking a leather thong from her hair, she threads the pendant and ties it around her neck, fingers running over the rough piece of metal. Ivarr’s lips curve upward upon seeing her smile. He turns his cheek and presses his lips to her temple —short, but not quite sweet, much like Ivarr himself.

The early morning brings a northeasterly wind to fill the dark sail, pushing them along the coast and closer to home. The mist clinging to the shoreline makes for a good place to land in the shadow of a green hill. They row until the prowl turns up sand like a great plow and the oars no long touch water. The beach gives way to a fen stretching as far as the eye can see to the north and south. Several men push forward, sinking into the soft earth —arms flailing as their boots are sucked further into the marsh. It feels like a trap.

She reaches for Ivarr’s arm, gripping onto his bare bicep. “Ivarr, stop.” The unease in her gut should have been enough warning for them to turn back, but the promise of blood and silver is too much for many to ignore. “Shadows on the hillock.” He glances over his shoulder and follows her gaze to the dark shapes looking down upon them.

High above the gathering, a herald raises a white banner with a scarlet dragon. “Britons,” Ivarr spits, freeing the axes at his hips.

“I am Rhodri!” A brute of a man calls, his size and girth could rival Halfdan. “King of this land!”

“That means shit to me!” Ivarr calls back, proud and arrogant in a foreign land. He looks to his left and right and the warriors awaiting his command —they outnumber the Britons almost three to one. With a nod, they charge. Rhodri and his warriors rush down the hill to meet them, and the Danes push further into the fen —driven by the lust for battle over logic.

Ivarr looks around and sees the warriors he has shed blood and sweat with since before the Great Heathen Army arrived on Saxon soil felled by arrows and cut down like winter wheat. He finds her still fighting —one blow blocked by her mother’s shield and a man eviscerated with her father’s sword. She and Ivarr share a nod from across the fen, knowing they will not win this fight either.

But Rhodri rises from the fen and lifts his great-ax, bringing it down with a rumbling war-cry. She almost raises the shield too late —the impact knocking her back into the soft earth and sword from her hand. Ivarr shouts at the king, throwing one of his axes though it misses its mark. She feels the leather hilt against her fingertip and strains to grasp it, but another strike comes. He stumbles, white-hot pain exploding in his leg —a short dagger drove deep into his thigh. It gives her enough time to rise, sword in hand once more. The splinted shield cannot take another blow, and when Rhodri’s two-handed ax breaks through the splinters, she crumples and does not rise.

“NO!” Ivarr shouts, racing toward the king and cutting down those in his path with reckless abandon. He throws himself at Rhodri but is knocked back into the marsh, where he struggles to rise as the earth attempts to drag him into the depths. The king presses his boot against Ivarr’s chest, pushing him into the muck. Ivarr looks up at the behemoth of a man standing over him, face splattered with the blood of his people and great-ax dripping with his beloved’s blood. His face twists into a burning rage —a promise of vengeance.

Rhodri lays the ax at Ivarr’s cheek, the edge digging into and tearing the flesh. “Leave this land, and give your people fair warning,” he says, skimming over the dead Danes littering his shores before looking down at Ivarr again —half his face painted red, “tell them King Rhodri gave you that cut.”

The Briton king and his men retreat up the hill, but Ivarr crawls through the mud to her —his left eye matted shut. Rhodri’s ax had cut deep and crushed bone, but her eyes are still open despite her shallow and labored breaths. Ivarr presses his hand against the wound though he knows it will do nothing. “Do not weep for me, my drengr.” Her voice is airy —resolute. “Valhalla calls to me.”

He wraps her fingers around the hilt of the sword she wielded since they were children, laying it gently on her chest. Ivarr cups her cheek and presses his forehead against hers. It is only a few seconds later that she draws a final breath —bright and kind eyes closing with a smile on her lips.

“CRAWLED THROUGH THE muck–” he shakes his head, looking down at his hands as though he can still see her blood upon them “–was too late.” Hearing the tale, Eivor thinks he understands why it is Ivarr is so against the idea of Ubba settling down in England —the chance he had to attain a simple life was stolen from him by the very same man who killed Ceolbert.

Ivarr looks into the fire —seeing her shape take form in the flickering flames as he runs his thumb over the gold pendant. He will take it as a good omen for the battle to come. A sign that he will soon join the fallen in the halls of the Æsir. “She waits for me in Valhalla,” he tells Eivor Wolfsmal, a smile twisting his lips and mangled cheek. “Soon we shall feast, fight, and fuck every day in Odin’s halls from sunup to sundown.” It is a dream —a vision he’s longed for since she was taken from him by Rhodri’s blade. “Just remember Wolf-kissed,” Ivarr sneers, “the bastard is mine.”

Eivor nods and reaches to clasp Ivarr on the shoulder. “I would not deny you this,” he assures the Son of Ragnar. King Rhodri would die at the hands of Ivarr the Boneless —Ivarr the King Killer.


End file.
